


Maybe You Can Find it in Your Heart

by electricchicken



Series: Maxine Myers: Matchmaker Extraordinaire [2]
Category: Zombies Run!
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Other, Pre Canon, accidental epic, season one spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 09:00:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1738883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricchicken/pseuds/electricchicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate universe where Jack and Eugene don't meet in a forest in Hampshire, Maxine Myers is the world's worst possible spy, Sara Smith is a great spy, Sam Yao would like it if people stopped asking him to bug the Abel Township lunchroom and Runners Four and Seven totally saw zombie Prince Harry on that supply run the other day. </p><p>Set before season one of Zombies, Run! Spoilers for Season One only.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe You Can Find it in Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> You know you have lost control of everything when you start sending frantic Skypes to your friends asking things like 'Did I forget to give anyone at Abel in the first season a cameo?!?!' Cameos for everyone! You get a cameo, and you, and you—
> 
> Pedants among you will point out that Major de Santa never turns up. To you I say 'la la la can't hear you.'
> 
> Also thank you to Tumblr user Galacticdrift for letting me write a bunch of the end of this in her apartment instead of being social.

The face is melting.

No, not melting. Not quite. Slack, though. Skin hanging loose on bones, no muscle underneath. Cheeks like caverns, barely a gleam of light off the pupil to suggest eyes somewhere under drooping lids. Only the lips still have life left — curled, snarling, pulled back from teeth gone yellow with age. What big teeth you have, and _Little Red Riding Hood_ wasn't so long ago that he's forgotten the answer to that keen bit of observation.

Teeth can't reach, he tells himself. Teeth can't grab. Doesn't mean these aren't pulling him in, reeling him closer and all he can smell is blood and death and the fever and God, God, what else does he deserve anyway? The jaws open wide, sagging skin on jowls rippling with the movement, and the cough rattles up from some deep, dark place below, echoing in the hollowed out head.

Jack forces his eyes open and presses a palm over his racing heart.

The little cupboard he's in isn't much more than a cot and a strip of cement. No light in here — they've reserved that for the nice, big room outside with all the guns — but at least Simon had given him a torch before shutting him in. He fumbles for it now, points the beam at the smooth, concrete ceiling. Nothing to see up there.

Still room under the bed, though.

Deep breaths. Count to three and — Jack rolls himself off the side of the cot, hits the ground on his knees and swings the light up like a sword, or better yet like good old W.G., waiting for him propped up against a wall outside, should he make it through the night. Nothing here either, save some bits of fuzz and dust, and a tiny brown smear along one wall.

Jack flicks the light off, pulls his knees to his chest and doesn't let himself think about where it might have come from.

…

"Come with me if you want to live."

The figure in the dark comes out of quarantine cackling, head tipped back, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. "Now there's an offer I can't refuse." He thrusts out a hand, flashes a smile that, like his laugh, is far too big for the joke that came before it. "Jack."

His hand is cold enough Eugene nearly winces. He's going to have to talk to Maxine about that. No way to mistake a fever for anything else in an unheated box, but they could at least put a few more blankets in there. "Eugene."

"Charmed, I'm sure," Jack says, mock-posh, but he's already shifting his gaze away, head swivelling between the gun racks and ammo crates. "Oh, there we are."

He drops Eugene's hand, steps around him as though he's a piece of furniture, heading towards shelf filled with — actually, he's got no idea what those boxes hold. Could be grenades or moth balls, just as easily. Not that either should be attracting this much attention from a complete stranger with no one but Simon to vouch for him, and then not even very well.

"Hey," he starts, sharp, but Jack's dropped to a crouch, crooning at something he can't see and cradling it to his chest.

"Hello, love. Glad to see you again."

Eugene tries to picture the room as it was a few minutes ago, and can't think of anything that would deserve a greeting like this. He edges a few steps closer to Jack, trying to peer over his shoulder at the thing in his arms. Rectangular, probably wooden, edges rounded too neatly for a plain two-by-four.

Curiosity gets the best of him. "What is that?"

"W.G." Jack beams up at him, and Eugene wishes that smile of his was more ironic, wasn’t quite so boyish and innocent. “Never was a bat so true."

"Uh," what to say to that? "Baseball?"

"Pah," Jack eases himself to his feet, W.G. swinging lazy circles in one hand. Too flat for a baseball bat, though Eugene's sure those notches along its edges and the deep red-brown stains in the grain aren't regulation no matter what the sport. "Cricket, all the way."

Still nothing to say to that.

"I'll take you over to Janine," Eugene decides. "She can give you your housing assignment."

"Housing," Jack repeats, as though he's just said 'unicorns' or 'leprechauns.' "Cool."

Abel's quad isn't busy any time of day, least of all when Sam's got runs on. But there's a group sorting supplies in the shade of the compound's lone tree and two of the township's half-dozen children are playing a game of tag that's going to be difficult to avoid. Add in the trek here from the hospital, and suddenly the distance between armoury and farmhouse seems to stretch miles. Eugene can feel an ache starting to build in his back and shoulders, the beginning of a headache brewing at his temples.

"Janine lives over there," he points towards the stone farmhouse, all its curtains drawn as usual. If Janine could board up the windows without wasting resources he's sure she would. "You go on ahead. I'm not very fast on these."

Jack's eyes flick downwards, and Eugene almost appreciates it that he doesn't hide the way he's looking at the knotted trouser leg dangling at about the spot where his left knee ought to be, or the mismatched pair of crutches. "I don't mind a slow walk."

Over the past two months he's got pretty good at identifying all the human variations of pity. But the look on Jack's face doesn't seem to match up to any of them. The tension around the eyes, the way his teeth are working at the inside corner of his mouth, the double-handed grip on the cricket bat, that doesn't look like it's about him at all.

"If you're sure you don't mind," Eugene says, and the relief that splits across Jack's face is painful to see.

…

They make it all of twenty steps before Jack breaks the uncomfortable silence settled between them. It's not conversation so much as chatter, steady stream of nervous observations that doesn't invite much in the way of response.

"Oh, you've got a garden. That's what that patch of dirt is, right? With the little sticks for beans and things to grow on? You know, I can't even remember the last time I ate a real vegetable. Must have been before all the zombies, but I couldn't tell you when. Unless you count chips — I shouldn't even bring those up, should I? Bet you could start a civil war over a plate of chips these days. Wouldn't even need for them to be hot. Wow, would you look at that guy up on the wall. Do you think he gets dizzy…"

Eugene doesn't mean to tune him out, but it's hard to say if Jack even wants to be heard. He's only talking a couple notches above a mumble anyway, and the rasp in his voice registers on Eugene's brain like static. Nothing more than white noise. The thread of the conversation is gone before he can register he's losing it.

Days like this the quad seems to go on forever. The muscles across his back are burning, little ripples of fire with every step. Right knee's starting to twinge too. If Janine offers him a chair he might not make it back up before lights out. Wouldn't be the first time he's accidentally spent the night in the farmhouse's front parlour. Janine's sofa isn't long enough for his good leg, but it's not much worse than his cot.

The sun's bright today and the glare off the top windows of the farmhouse makes him screw his eyes up. Today's headache is settling in just behind the left ear, a dull throb that's going to have its hooks all across the back of his skull soon enough if past experience is anything to go by.

Any minute now they'll pass that group sorting electrical parts. Someone should tell them not to get the smashed laptops dusty. Eugene knows pretty much nothing about the inner workings of computers, but that much seems obvious.

God, when did the rough equivalent of a three block walk turn into the Iron Man?

"…gene?" Jack says in what's almost loud enough to qualify as a normal speaking voice. "Eugene?"

"Huh?" He nearly shakes his head to clear it, then remembers the headache.

Jack's frowning at him, all that anxious energy from early gone, replaced by wariness in his eyes. "You alright?"

No way to tell how long he's been trying to get his attention. May as well come clean. "Sorry, I zoned out. What were you saying?"

It's the wrong question to ask, because Jack's clearly floundering for an answer. "Never mind. It was dumb anyway, I think."

"No, it's fine. What were you going say?" He doesn't know why he's pushing, but it's either that or say nothing, and reporter instincts won't let him let the conversation drop so easy.

"Is it—" Jack falters again, tips of his ears reddening where they poke through his mess of gingery hair. "Is it nice here, then? Do you like it?"

His turn to come up at a loss. Has anyone ever asked him anything like that before? No, and why would they? Liking Abel or not would imply he has a choice about being here.

"You'll be fine," Eugene says. Not answering the right the question, but it seems to settle Jack and that's good enough.

...

The dining hall isn't much more than a big tent, the kind of thing Jack remembers from older cousins' spring weddings those couple of years where it was really trendy to get married in fields. But even without real walls, walking through the front flap is like walking into a wall of sound. Must be a hundred voices, all going at once, their combined volume only encouraging them all to talk louder and clank their forks against their plates until he can't hear anything but noise.

Jack takes a step back and hits the canvas. Better than running into the line of townsfolk still steaming in behind him anyway, if only so much so.

Courage, Holden. He's got this. Hardly any different than the dining hall at uni. 'Cept for better fashion sense, maybe. He can't spot anyone wearing their pyjamas to supper here. He's faced down worse than this.

If only there weren't so many of them.

The food line moves at a good clip. He's got a plate of — well, better not to dwell on the finer points. It comes fast and looks like it might be warm. That's what counts. One last stop to pick up his ration of orange drink of uncertain origin and he's reached the end of the queue, left looking out on the sea of picnic tables.

Jack hesitates, and the person behind him steps on his heel and nearly upends her whole plate of food down his back. The rest of the line doesn't make the same mistake, traffic routing around him with all the efficiency of cars at a roundabout.

Maybe he could just eat here, standing up.

No. No, he's better than that. Didn't fight off all those zoms to be felled by a lunch room. Not him. He'll just find a seat in the back. Doesn't look so crowded at that corner table across the tent. He could manage that. Probably.

If he doesn't look anywhere but the space immediately in front of him, crossing the room isn't so bad. Bit loud, bit too close. But doable, in the end. The plate hits the wooden tabletop with a clatter he can't hardly hear over the noise and Jack slides onto the nearest open patch of bench, head down and shoulders hunched.

The stuff on the plate tastes faintly of glue, but it's hotter than he expected. Jack shovels it in as quick as the roof of his mouth and his tongue will allow, eyes trained on the plate.

"If you choke, I'm not doing first aid."

He looks up, and Eugene's watching him from about halfway down the table with just a hint of a smirk.

"Hungry?"

Jack swallows hard, trying to dislodge a mouthful of food stubbornly clinging to the sides of his throat. "Figured it was better if I didn't try and taste it."

Eugene's smirk spreads into a smile and he tips up his own plate, displaying the not-entirely artful sculpture of a volcano he's constructed out of his dinner. "You're not wrong."

Even tipped sideways the food volcano doesn't so much as droop. Jack takes another bite before he can think too hard about that. Cooled some, it sticks against the backs of his teeth. "Do you know what this is?"

"Do you want to know?" Eugene asks, letting his plate drop back to the table with a thud.

"No," Jack admits. "Aren't you going to eat yours?"

By way of an answer Eugene turns his plate upside-down. Still no movement on the food front.

Jack looks back at his own meal. Back at the plate. Back at his own food again. Against all good sense, his stomach rumbles. "You mind if I…?"

"You're insane," Eugene says, but there's a bit of admiration there as he slides the dish across the table.

…

Eugene is not expecting Jack to follow him out of the dining tent. It is, in retrospect, a foolish assumption.

"What do you do round here after dark?" Jack asks, falling into an easy, ambling step beside him. Some of the tension from earlier must have bled out, though he jerks his head around when a group of runner pass them on their way to the showers, trailing them across the quad with his eyes.

"There's a rec tent next to the kitchens," he suggests. "Some people play cards, board games. And we've got books, sort of. Runner Six only brings back airport thrillers. She says it's research, or something."

"Alright," Jack says, "but what do you do?"

Eugene thinks about his own plans for the evening. Physio exercises and a hobble from the hospital to Men's Communal Dorm No. 2 and he's about done. If he wants to make a big night of it, there's the murder mystery Maggie brought him back special. One of those cheesy ones where Connecticut's greatest detective is a professional caterer who includes recipes at the end.

"I've got a thing," he ends up saying, "at the hospital."

"Oh," Jack's looking at the leg again. Absence of leg. Eugene's never properly decided how to refer to it. "I guess you don't want company for that."

"Not really." Wouldn't that be great — a near-total stranger watching him sweat his way through what should be the easy part of a middle school gym class. He can hardly think of a better way to spend the evening.

"Right, okay." Jack casts around, like he's looking for an exit sign. "I think maybe… they don't mind people taking walks, do they?"

"Try not to start coughing under the sniper towers and you'll be fine," Eugene says.

Jack nearly trips over his own feet. And there it is again, that big, inappropriate laugh. "Damn, do they let you do all the welcome tours?"

"They took me off the VIP circuit," it's so cheesy to laugh at his own jokes, but there's something infectious about Jack's laughter. Hard not to play along. "I still can't figure out why."

"Can't imagine," Jack's got the giggling mostly under control, if not the smile. "Remind me to ask for the full treatment some time."

"Sure." The hospital's looming up on the right, tent dimly lit by a few propane lamps. With any luck, Maxine will be out somewhere. That campaign to fix up Sam and Runner Five isn't going to wrap up by itself. "This is my stop."

"See you later?"

Abel Township's not even as big as a smaller-than-average shopping mall back home. They couldn't avoid each other if they wanted. But Jack — he looks like he means it. Eugene's not heartless.

"See you later," he agrees.

...

Eugene nearly has himself fooled into believing the watery brown liquid served with breakfast is tea when someone thumps down into the seat across from him in mess hall.

"How was the first night out of—" but when he looks up from the mug there's no mistaking the woman sitting across from him for Jack. "Sorry, Sara. I thought you were someone else."

Runner Eight's face never moves out of its resting position, but the irony in her voice does the work her features won't. "Don't tell me you've made a friend."

"I wouldn't say a friend so much as a follower," Eugene says.

Sara raises her eyebrows, tilts her head slightly to the side, and the rush of shame goes through him hot and sharp as a knife. "Three's new recruit, is it?"

"Yeah," he takes another swig from the mug. So much for self-delusion, there's no way that's tea. "He's okay."

"Right," her tone is perfectly neutral and somehow that's worse than anything else could be. "Your new social life going to cut into our walking time?"

Eugene keeps sipping at his non-tea and doesn't answer.

Janine meets them in the quad wearing coveralls spattered with what smells like engine grease and gasoline and carrying a dented took box that wouldn't be out of place in a black and white photo from the 1920s. Eugene's never been more grateful that he doesn't need her holding him up these days. The reek of her clothes alone would be enough to knock him on his ass.

"Looking well, Janine," this time Eight's smile seems genuine enough. "Where are we to today?"

"Repair job on the east wall," she bends an elbow, letting Eight link their arms together, and not for the first time Eugene wonders if he's reading too much into that friendship. "Ready, Mr. Woods?"

"Why not."

They set out at a leisurely pace. Leisurely for Janine and Sarah, anyway. Eugene's breathless by the time they're across the quad, can feel the damp patches soaking through his shirt where the crutches rest under his arms. Keeping pace, though. That's something. Not that long ago they wouldn't have made it half as far without stopping.

"Did you hear about Cordelia?" Sara's saying.

"Ah, yes," Janine nods. "Horrid breakup. Of course, few of us ever trusted Burton."

"Girl talk again?" Eugene drawls. For the first month of walks he'd almost bought the gossip angle. Then they'd had word New Canton was absorbing the Hightower settlement less than a day after Janine had confided to Sara in tones a little too dark for the happy occasion that "Newton" had proposed to "Hilary" with his grandmother's ring. He's still not sure what that last part was code for, but the rest of it hangs together well enough.

"Got to have some guilty pleasures, don't we?" Sara says cheerily. Eugene's starting to think she enjoys this I-know-that-you-know-that-I-know stuff too much. Every time he tries to call them on their code, she only goes at it with more gusto. "Besides, I hear Harriet's expecting twins. Two girls, I think."

Janine gives her a sharp look. "Who told you that?"

"Heard it," Sara says. "Around. Somewhere."

Eugene gives the conversation up for lost until they’re rounding the corner of the communications shack — his shirt’s well soaked now, patchy with sweat even on the chest — and Sara’s touches his arm just long enough to get his attention but not quite enough to throw off his balance.

“Janine, we’ve got a spy at three o’clock.”

“Don’t look,” Janine hisses, and Eugene snaps his gaze straight ahead at the command.

“You’re kidding.” It’s ridiculous, so why is he whispering too? “Why can’t I look?”

“We don’t want to spook it,” Sara says out of the side of her mouth, lips never appearing to move from a bland smile.

“Use your peripheral vision, Mr. Woods,” Janine says, and the last time Eugene heard her sound like this involved Sam Yao, a jar of marmite and at least three pieces of delicate machinery. Being bad at unnecessary spying doesn’t seem like it compares.

Still, better not to argue with the lady of the house. He keeps his head as still as he can, darts his eyes to the side, and sees a flash of red. Jack’s hovering by a stack of crates with the look of someone who isn’t sure whether to stand his ground or make a break for it.

“Friend of yours?” Sara asks, “or follower?”

Eugene is never opening his damn mouth again. “That’s Jack.”

“Mr. Holden is our newest candidate for fieldwork,” Janine says. Eugene can’t tell if she’s missed the edge in Eight’s words, or if this is one of those things where they’re both going to laugh their asses off once he’s out of earshot. Not that it matters because what the hell?

“You want to make him a runner?” Screw whatever mutual stealth pact he didn’t agree to. He looks over at Jack, who seems no more comfortable now that he’s leaned against the crates, arms crossed over his chest and that ridiculous cricket bat propped in the dirt at his feet.

Jack’s eyes meet his and the smile on his face is uncertain, but genuine enough.

“Runner Three believes Mr. Holden is possessed of hidden depths,” Janine says. “And frankly, we don’t have the resources not to find out.”

“Runner Four started twitchy,” Sara says. “Are you leaving us, Eugene?”

They’ve gotten ahead of him. Nearly five steps. Funny. He doesn’t remember stopping. Across the way, Jack widens his eyes in a question, and some muscle in Eugene’s side he’s never learned the name of takes the opportunity for a twinge that makes him grit his teeth.

“I could use a break,” he admits.

“Do your stretches,” Eight says by way of goodbye, and tugs Janine off by their still-linked arms. He swears the pair of them melt away in the space of a blink.

Jack’s still watching him.

Well, what the hell.

“You want to sit down somewhere?” he calls.

…

“I wasn’t stalking you,” Jack says.

There isn’t much by way of furniture in this part of the compound, but the crates are wooden and sturdy enough once Jack’s shoved a few of them into a makeshift bench in a display of strength Eugene has to admit he was not expecting. He doesn’t sit so much as perch atop his own box-seat, legs crossed under him, cricket bat balanced across his knees and eyes trained at the wall of the building opposite as his ears go red at the edges.

“Not that you would think that,” Jack says. “That would be weird, if I were, like, lying in wait for you around corners — which I’m not doing. Like I said.”

A better person wouldn’t laugh. But a better person isn’t watching Jack turn a fetching shade of eggplant. “It’s not that big of place,” Eugene says. “I get it.”

“Cool.” He hunches down on himself, like he’d turtle into the neck of his t-shirt if he could. “You like music?”

“Uh.” It’s not that it’s a difficult question, but it throws him all the same. God, when was the last time anyone cared about music? “Yeah, I guess.”

“What do you like?” Jack’s fidgeting with the bat again, smoothing a hand along its back, drumming his fingers against the wood.

“Lots of things.” He tries to think back to his long-bricked phone, rows of songs arranged into playlists for the trans-Atlantic flight. Some new album his sub-editor had been pushing on him all month. By who? No memory of what it sounded like now. Did he ever get around to it? “Rock, I guess. Some pop. I don’t even mind country that much.”

He’s said blander things, probably, though he can hardly think of any examples. Jack’s face lights up like he’s seen a puppy. Worse than that. Eugene thinks he can see his ears perk and his tail wag. “Do you want to listen to something?”

It feels cruel to say it, but, “I don’t think there’s a stereo. Janine cannibalizes everything for parts.”

“Oh,” Jack looks sheepish again, but he’s still grinning. “I’ve got — not a stereo or anything, but,” he breaks off, shifts his weight until he can dig into one of his back pockets. The iPod has seen better days. The case is dented where it isn’t scratched, the screen smudged and scuffed to near-illegibility. If it were a touchscreen it would be impossible to use. The headphones don’t look much better.

Eugene could kiss it.

“Got a little solar thing for it too,” Jack says, like a proud parent. “What do you fancy? Any requests?”

“Let me see?” The plastic and metal are warm from who knows how long in Jack’s pockets. A touch of the button and the screen flicks to life, menu of artists scrolling. Eugene’s horrified to find that his chest feels tight. It shouldn’t feel so — so unfamiliar. Like another lifetime. Like someone else’s life altogether.

“You choose,” he pushes the iPod back into Jack’s hands, fingers suddenly stiff and clumsy. “Play something you like.”

Jack cycles from taken aback to sympathetic to embarrassed almost quickly enough for Eugene’s hackles to stay down. Almost. “We don’t have to.”

“No,” too forceful, that’s a flinch he pretends not to notice. “Let’s listen.”

“Oh,” the enthusiasm’s all but gone now, but Jack scrolls through the names anyway. “Here’s an old standby.”

“Sure,” Eugene agrees, when the screen’s tilted his way, not bothering to read the name.

“Here,” Jack holds out an earbud, scooting closer to the edge of his crate, cricket bat encroaching on his personal space even if Jack himself isn’t. “Unless, did you want both bits?”

“One’s fine.” If looking at song titles was too much, he doesn’t want to think about surround sound. “Thanks.”

Jack fits his own earpiece into place, edging even closer when the cord proves shorter than it looks. They’re almost shoulder to shoulder now. Eugene leans back as much as he can, trying to put some distance between his stomach and the cricket bat’s handle. Too easy to see how that could go wrong.

“I remember they were playing this one over the speakers when I woke up for the first time after everything went—“ Jack’s smile goes wry. “‘After everything went bad’ feels like an understatement doesn’t it?”

He clicks the play button, and the music rushes into Eugene’s ear.

…

Simon’s at the track when Jack gets there, doing some sort of leg-lift-abdominal-crunch thing that would look ridiculous on anyone with fewer muscles and more personal shame. Jack’s not sure how he manages to untangle his limbs in the time it takes him to cross to the centre of the training space, but he rolls up to his feet with a sort of grace that’s either intimidating or insanely hot.

“Look at you, all grown up and ready for your first day.”

He glances down. Next to Simon, his legs look ghostly pale in his running shorts. There’s a bruise on his knee he doesn’t remember getting and another on his shin. Least he’s mostly lost the beer gut in the months on the road. “Don’t make fun if I’m awful?”

“Not a lot of fun,” Simon says, and claps him on the back hard enough that he staggers forward a step. “Besides, that’s the doc’s job.”

“Simon, what did I tell you about showing off to the newbies?” Dr. Myers says from behind them, and Jack thinks it’s a real credit to himself that he doesn’t jump out of his skin at the surprise.

“That I should only do it shirtless?”

He turns just in time to see the doctor roll her eyes skyward. “Sam wants you at the gates early today. Runner Seven’s going to show you around a noisemaker.”

“Still got a few minutes don’t I?” Simon’s sulk is just as theatrical as the rest of him. “I want to see his first steps.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Dr. Myers says, but there’s some affection there. “If you’re late, I’m not covering for you. Jack, come walk with me?”

“What? Oh.” She’s only got two steps on him, but he already feels a world behind. “Yeah, ready to go.”

“We’re going to start with a 10-minute walk.” Her pace is brisk. Not quite a jog, but no Sunday afternoon stroll in the park either. Jack falls in alongside and tries to ignore the itch in his palms. He’d left W.G. at the barracks for a reason. He’s seen Eugene make enough faces to get the hint about bringing weapons out in public.

“Jack,” Dr. Myers says, not quite sharp, but like it’s not the first time she’s said it either. “Head up. Don’t put your hands in your pockets.”

“Sorry,” he unsticks his nails from the soft part of his palms, forces his chin up. He can’t shake the feeling the doctor’s watching him, frowning, but so long as he doesn’t look there’s nothing to notice or think about.

They walk half a lap in silence, save for their feet against the ground. Dr. Myers’ shoes are an acid-bright teal and purple Jack’s sure ought not to work together. Next to his own battered trainers they’re shockingly clean. Not the ones she ran in when it counted, he’d bet. Whatever pair she came through the front gates with, they’re not for training purposes. Maybe they’ve got too much blood on them.

“How are you settling in here?” Her voice is gentler this time. Small talk’s not life or death the way watching where he’s going would be.

“Fine. Good. Working on it, anyway.” He catches himself with his hands halfway into his pockets and yanks them back. “The bed’s a nice change.”

“Getting to know anyone?” It’s rote, routine pleasantry. A few months ago she’d have been asking him for his date of birth and family medical history in that same tone.

“Little bit.” It’s all the answer the question demands, but now that they’ve broken this one, Jack doesn’t know if he’s got another silence in him. “Simon seems nice enough. And Eugene’s been—” been what? Tolerant? “Nice, too.”

“Eugene?” Now she’s interested. “As in, Eugene with the—”

“Crutches, yeah.” He can tell she’s staring at him, but he can’t read the expression she’s wearing. Maybe confused? Except she also seems sort of, well, about to burst. Strange. “He’s letting me sit with him at meals,” Jack offers.

Dr. Myers lets out a small, squeaky noise.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“Wrong? No, nothing like that.” She lets out a strange little laugh and looks away. Jack is more puzzled than ever. “I think we’re ready to move on to some running. Start with 15 seconds on, one minute off. That sound good?”

“Sure.” At least that sounds straight ahead. He could use some obvious right now. “Ready when you are, Dr. Myers.”

“Maxine,” she corrects. “Now, start with a slow run. Ready? Go.”

…

Maxine doesn’t even bother finishing her knock before shoving open the door to the comms shack. “Sam, guess what?”

Sam lifts his head from the mess of mission report sheets and wires he’s been using as a pillow with a sigh. “Did you know Runner Three know the words to every number one pop song of the last decade?”

“And Evan didn’t strangle him?” she plops down in his spare chair hard enough to make the air rush out of the cushions. “So that’s why they put him in charge. Patience.”

“I think a real leader would’ve backed me up when I said no Taylor Swift,” Sam grumbles. “What’s your thing?”

“I think I met the perfect guy for Eugene.”

Sam is not sure whether that’s better or worse than being subjected to Simon Lauchlan’s cover of _Love Story_ twice in a row, in the key of noisemaker beeps. “I thought we weren’t doing that any more?”

“I know, I know. But,” she inches closer, leaning in like there’s someone around who might overhear, “Eugene likes this one.”

That makes him sit up straighter. “Seriously? Eugene doesn’t like anyone.”

“Right?” she stops just short of clapping her hands together. “And he’s cute, in that freckles and ears kind of way.”

Sam isn’t sure he’s familiar with that kind of cute, but it’s probably different for gay guys. “You think he and Eugene, you know, play for the same team?”

“If you’d seen him checking out Simon you wouldn’t have to ask,” Maxine rolls her eyes. “I was waiting for Three to start doing the bend and snap.”

“He dropped a fork at supper last night,” Sam says, darkly. “While wearing spandex. I didn’t even know Runner Six could blush like that.”

“At least we know that if we need to repopulate the earth, someone’s game for it,” Maxine says. “So how do we get Jack and Eugene together?”

She’s got that look in her eyes again. And just when he’d finally got the cameras back to Janine, too. “Do we need to do anything? If Eugene likes him, won’t it sort itself out?”

“Sam.” Is she — she is pouting at him right now. That’s. Wow. That’s something to see. “Don’t be a party pooper.”

“Alright.” There’s no point fighting it. Besides, what else has he got to do? Clean the comms shack? “I’ll see Janine about the cameras after the next run.”

…

“You didn’t tell me you were friends with the new runner,” Maxine says, not looking up from where she’s suturing a small but nasty looking gash on Runner Four’s knee. Barbed wire is treacherous stuff. At least Jody came to Abel up-to-date on her tetanus shots.

“Ooh, I haven’t met him yet.” Four’s face scrunches up in a grimace as Maxine jabs the needle in again. “What’s he — ow — like?”

Eugene presses his knife into the groove on an aspirin tablet, rocking the blade until it cracks into two neat pieces. Only another 40 to split. He doesn’t want to think about what a pain it’s going to be if Maxine decides they need to move to quarter-rations on the pain pills. And he doesn’t much want to think about why Jack’s come up in the discussion now either.

“He seems like a nice guy,” Maxine says, suddenly and suspiciously bland. “Eugene, what did you think?”

Sometimes he wishes his instincts were worse. “Yeah. He’s nice.”

“He seems pretty taken with you.” Maxine says. With a poker face like that, it’s no wonder Sam always wins against her at cards, no matter how much she cheats. “What do the two of you talk about?”

The knife hits the cutting board with more than necessary force, the two white halves of the pill exploding outwards and skittering across the counter. Eugene scoops them up, deposits them in their appointed pile and sets a new tablet in their place. By the time that’s accomplished, he doesn’t feel so much like shouting. “I don’t know. Nothing much.”

Maxine looks like she wants to say more. Thank God for Jody, who has real questions to ask. “Can he run?”

“I think so,” she reaches for a pair of snips on her instrument tray, shoots him a look that says they’re not done with this conversation for good. “Though I want to get a few more solid meals in him before we send him out the gates. Speaking of, give yourself a day to heal before you put too much wear on the stitches.”

“I’ve been wanting a rest day anyway,” Jody says, giving her leg a few experimental bends. “Runner Six wants me to teach her how to use a bow for her next book.”

“I thought Maggie was writing a mystery novel,” Eugene interjects. The further this conversation gets from him the better.

“Still is.” Jody pushes herself off the cot and takes a few steps. She’s hardly limping at all. “They’re going to find the victim in a locked bunker, shot through the heart with an arrow, but the door’s locked from the inside and the bow is missing and the murder victim’s gone grey from a bite he was hiding on the leg.”

“That old chestnut,” Eugene say with a nod. “Let me walk you out?”

Runner Four can’t quite hide the confusion that streaks across her face. He doesn’t blame her. Not exactly like he’s tried being friendly before. But Maxine can’t object to him avoiding the Jack question (whatever that might be in her head) in favour of socialization.

He waits until they’re out of earshot to say anything. “Hey, look, could you do me a favour?”

Now she’s not even trying to hide the confusion. “I think so.”

“I think I’m going to pass on dinner,” he makes a face, presses a hand to his stomach and hopes all those years of lying to get away from longwinded readers phoning in with nitpicks about the history of charcuterie and the spelling of amchur were enough to make this convincing. “Can you invite Jack to sit with the runners? He should get to know you guys.”

“Simon knows what he looks like, right?” Hook, line, sinker. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Just tired,” Eugene says, and if it’s a lie at least it’s not much of one.

…

Sam is standing on a wobbly plastic chair, trying to decide if it’s worth installing a new, more discreet bracket in which to mount the cafeteria surveillance camera, when Maxine’s newest mark slinks into the mess hall.

It’s like watching the new kid at school. The new runner makes it all of five increasingly slow steps before he grinds to a halt, head swivelling as he scans the room. If Sam had screwed the camera into its old mount, it would be at almost the perfect angle to pick up the way the runner’s forehead creases as his eyes dart back and forth across the rows of tables.

Sam feels his stomach churn in sympathy. Unless it’s the tinned tomatoes and sardines on tonight’s menu.

“Jack!”

The runner jerks in surprise, seems to take longer than Sam does to spot Simon waving at him from the runners’ table, even though they’ve got the best spot in the whole caf, in a patch of light right under the window. It’s Runner Four who gets to her feet, though, weaving through the crowd like Sam wasn’t watching her trip over a partially-downed barbed wire fence five hours back.

From his spot by the wall there’s no way to hear what she says to Jack — again, why can’t everyone wear headsets all the time? — but whatever it is, he shakes his head, starts to pull back. Jody lets him get all of a step away before grabbing him by the arm and tugging him in the direction of her table. And he may not look happy about it, but Jack seems to have sense enough to know when he’s beat.

“What was that?” Maxine asks, and Sam yelps and nearly drops the camera.

“When did you get here?” He narrows his eyes, takes in the way she’s leaned all-too-casually against the wall and the nondescript beige-coloured sweater she’s swapped in for the usual scrubs. “Were you following him?”

“I think you should mount the camera higher,” Maxine says. “Give us a wider field of vision.”

“I still wish we’d gone with Heilyn Bowen,” Sam mutters, and gropes through the pockets of his jumper for a screwdriver.

…

Depending on what she’s going for, Maxine’s either the best at dropping hints or — if she’s trying to be subtle — the worst Eugene’s seen since he got promoted high enough at his old newspaper not to have to cover any local politics. If she tries to tell him how nice and sunny it is outside one more time, he’s going to have to go sit in the quarantine room in protest. Not even a chance of seeing a ray of light in there.

He’s nearly finished a new medical requisition form for the runners (well, Sam mostly refers to it as Maxine’s Christmas list, but Eugene’s trying for something at least part way grown up) when she drags her office chair all the way across the room, drops down next to him and makes such a show of putting on her running shoes there’s nothing he can do but ignore her with all his might.

“It doesn’t seem fair that we had to wait for the zombie apocalypse to get a sunny day this spring, does it?” She’s not looking at him, but the meaningful stare directed at her shoelaces gets the point across.

“Sure,” Eugene says, staring at his clipboard (binder clip and very strong piece of cardboard, but it’s the thought that counts). Did he miss any kinds of bandages? Surely the runners will understand that they can bring back cloth or plastic or liquid or anything they find short of fibreglass insulation, so long as it might soak up some blood.

“I’ll be gone at least an hour,” she continues, tugging the bow in her lace until Eugene doesn’t know how she’s planning on getting it undone later. “It would be a shame for you to be stuck inside on your own.”

He sets the clipboard aside with a sigh. “Tell me what it is you want me to do.”

If Maxine can hear the irritation in his voice, and she must, she’s ignoring it. “Come to the training grounds with me.”

Fine, he’ll try it her way. Relentless, obtuse cheer. “I don’t think I’m ready to run laps yet.”

“Sit on the sidelines. Work on your tan. Help me figure out who to pair Jack with for his first field run that won’t make him bolt for the hills.”

He has to hand it to her. She’s slipped that in there well.

“Sam said he wanted this list before the afternoon runs.” It’s a long shot, but it’s all he’s got left.

“I’ll run it over in a minute,” Maxine’s lack of subtlety extends to gloating too. That’s the smuggest smile he’s seen for days. “Can you go ahead to the yard, tell Jack I’m going to be late?”

Maxine Myers 1, Eugene Woods 0.

“Fine.”

…

Jack’s already waiting when he gets to the flat, dirt square the runners have claimed as their own, rocking from his heels to the balls of his feet and back, hands tucked so far into the kangaroo pocket at the front of his hooded sweater that his arms seem to begin at his elbows. Eugene’s barely come into view before he’s bounding over, dirty sneakers kicking up a small shower of pebbles and dust.

“How you feeling?”

Right, Jody must have passed on his fib from yesterday. “Better,” he lies. “The runners took care of you?”

“Yeah. Well, Runner Three and Four did. I don’t think Runner Eight took a shine to me,” Jack’s bouncing on his toes now, fidgety as Eugene’s ever seen him. “And I didn’t really figure out which number went with who otherwise.”

“You’ll get there.” It doesn’t sound as comforting as it could, coming out of his mouth. Empty phrases were never his thing. “Maxine’s running late. She wanted me to tell you.”

“Oh.” He could swear Jack looks disappointed. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” He could leave now. Maxine’s probably going to be another ten minutes bothering Sam at least. If he pushes himself, he could find a hiding spot behind Janine’s farmhouse before then. She’d be mad, but what’s she going to do? Cut off the other leg?

“I should—“ he starts, just as Jack says, “I got—“

“Sorry.”

“Sorry.”

“You can—“

“No, go ahead.”

“No bat today,” Eugene says.

“Yeah, no,” Jack looks away, chews at the inside of his cheek. “Left him in my bunk.”

Probably best not to say anything about Jack’s choice of pronoun there. “Right. What were you going to say?”

“They had flapjacks at dinner.” He tugs an arm free of his front pouch, holds a plastic-wrapped, granola-bar looking thing out in Eugene’s direction. “I saved you one. Jody said she wasn’t sure you’d get dinner and — um, I’ve actually never seen you eat.”

So that’s uncomfortable. “You didn’t need to do that.”

“They’re good,” Jack says, still pushing the bar at him. “It’s just from the shops, but they’re chewy still. Runner Three and I split his. He said he doesn’t do refined sugars.”

Eugene tries to keep his eyes from rolling and can’t. It’s not his fault. There’s something about Simon that inspires maximum disdain. “You should hold onto that. There could be a food shortage at some point.”

“Or,” Jack says, stubborn, “you could eat it and prove you’re not a robot.”

That trips him up. “Why would I be a robot?”

“Robots don’t eat.” His mouth quirks up at the corner, single dimple forming in his left cheek. “And I’ve never seen you sleep. Maybe Dr. Myers plugs you in at nights.”

“What about,” Eugene gestures downwards, encompassing leg and crutches.

“Clever diversion,” Jack says, almost fiercely cheerful, smile going stuck-on but never dimming. “Take it, seriously.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t have any pockets as roomy as Jack’s. Nothing to do but stand here holding it. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” he juts his chin out, squares his shoulders like he's headed into battle. Eugene almost wants to laugh. “Are you hanging around?”

He sneaks a glance across the quad and sure enough, there’s a familiar figure in running clothing headed their way. No getting clear of this now. He doubts Maxine’s above dragging him back by the collar if needed. “I think so.”

“Could you do me a favour?” More rummaging, though at least this time the device Jack produces is familiar. “Can you give this some sun? Battery’s running low.”

The solar panel looks a little pathetic, flopping out of the end of the iPod, but the rest of it’s no worse for wear than the last time he saw it. And at least this he can give back. “Yeah, no problem.”

“You can listen to it some more if you like,” Jack says. “I don’t mind if you do it without me.”

There’s something about the way he says it that would be unsettling, if Eugene didn’t immediately decide he was reading too much into it. At least the iPod turns out to have an entire playlist worth of Tom Waits, and the flapjack is surprisingly delicious.

…

In a show of restraint, Maxine goes almost five hours without saying anything, or even throwing more than the usual number of meaningful looks his way. Eugene’s lulled into such a false state of security he even agrees to join in her and Sam’s after-hours Scrabble game. Half the tiles are bits of cardboard instead of wood, but at least missing pieces don’t mess with the gameplay nearly as much as the missing Miss Scarlett card in the rec tent’s game of Cluedo.

Sam’s in the process of laying out BLAST when Maxine says, apropos of nothing, “Jack’s cute.”

Eugene stares at his tiles: EKDNBIT. Is it impolitic to play BITE in a zombie apocalypse? SKIED. That’s a safer option. He’ll go with that. “That’s ten points for me, Sam.”

“Don’t you think so?” Maxine asks.

Sam shuffles down in his chair until it looks like he might slide off it all together in favour of hiding under the table.

“Sure,” he says, and reaches across the card table for more letters. JSPU. “Why not.”

“It just seems like the two of you really click,” she sets her tiles down gently, careful not to unsettle the lighter replacement pieces. JOUSTED. “That’s all.”

“Click. Right,” Eugene says, and there’s not one reply coming to mind that’s the least bit charitable. Not a friend so much as a follower. God, what’s wrong with him? As though he’s one to talk when it comes to weaknesses. At least Jack doesn’t need anyone literally propping him up.

“What?” Maxine says, mouth pressing into a thin line.

“Nothing,” he shakes his head, shuffles his tiles around on his board. JUKE, that’s a real word. He’s pretty sure. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Eugene—“

“Pickle!” Sam blurts, sudden volume making them all flinch. The tiles hit the board with sharp little slaps, no room to talk over that without committing to a near-shout. “P is three, I is one, C is another three, that’s seven… eight, nine, 10 — 14 points, plus the triple letter bonus on the P.”

They’re not really friends, but in that moment Eugene thinks he’d happily take a bullet for Sam Yao, if it came down to it.

…

He’s getting the hang of this. By the time he’s fully awake he’s already got a forearm pressed over his mouth, teeth against skin muffling the worst of the shout. In the darkness around him he hears soft snoring, the creak of a cot and slow, evenly-spaced wheezes of breath, but no more than that. The rest of the dorm’s learned to sleep though the pain, even if he hasn’t.

Eugene shoves himself upright, squeezes at the flesh just above the scars with both hands. Won’t stop the throb, but it’s something else to focus on at least. What did he do this time? Roll over too quickly, bang the side of the cot — oh, he hasn’t kneed himself in his own stump recently. Could be that.

No matter. He’s up for good now. The adrenaline spike alone is enough to keep him shaking and sweating until morning. He’d rather not lie here with his thoughts in the meantime.

His limbs (such as remain) are rubbery at best as he dresses and stumbles out, but the night air’s fortifying, the right kind of slap in the face. The moon’s nearly full, almost enough light to see by after months without street lamps and flashlights. Nice enough time for a walk.

This time of night he doesn’t have to worry keeping breaks to a minimum or how hard he’s breathing or whether he’s putting his crutches down in sync. Going fast wouldn’t do much for him anyway. Sunrise won’t come sooner if he does three laps of the township instead of one or two.

He follows the wall, mostly, if only to have somewhere to lean when necessary. Above him, the sentries on night duty are quiet in their lookouts. He gets a wave from Aubra at the front gates, not much from anyone else. No one uses words. This time of night, any shouting’s liable to spook the light sleepers. He’s seen a vicious sneeze set off a mild panic in the tents near the kitchens, where the sound proofing’s nonexistent.

Maxine’s never liked him to spend too much time looking at the ground when he walks, but in the dark he figures it’s a reasonable compromise. No good tripping over a stone or a loose piece of junk and going over. Some things his pride will allow when he’s by himself, but he’s had enough of falling. He trains his eyes on the ground, and lets the rest of it fall away — the feel of the crutches under his arms, the soft scrape of dirt on metal and the strain in his shoulders. Nothing to process but the ground.

Even still, he’s almost right on top of the body before it registers.

Shock is the only thing that keeps Eugene from screaming sheer bloody murder.

"Sorry," the body sits up, flapping its arms frantically. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t think anyone — Eugene?”

It takes him a moment to unclench his jaw enough to get the word out. “Jack?”

“Sorry,” Jack scrambles to his feet. “You’re not supposed to be out here.”

That hardly seems like an excuse. “You’re not supposed to be out here,” Eugene hisses back. Good thing he’s already resigned himself to not sleeping again. Way his heart’s pounding it might take days. “What are you doing?”

“I was,” he hesitates, “watching the stars?”

It’s such stupid, idiotic, ridiculous answer that it stops Eugene in his tracks. “Why?”

“Thought it might help me wind down.” With the dark to hide his features, Jack’s body language is direct for once. No looking at his shoes or squirming. “I’ve been having trouble sleeping.”

He can’t help but empathize with that. “Did they put you in a bunk with one of the snorers?”

“No,” confusion in his voice, and Jack jerks a thumb at the walls. “It’s them. Don’t you hear that?”

Eugene strains his ears, but there’s nothing to hear but the wind through the barbed wire, a few soft footfalls of a sniper turning, the steady background drone of — oh. “What, the zoms?”

“They always sound so close this time of night.” Jack goes silent a beat, letting the sound of moaning drift in, rising and falling in irregular waves. “Can you really not hear it?”

“You get used to it.” He’s not sure if he means it to be consoling or not.

“Thanks,” from the sounds of it, neither is Jack. “Can’t sleep either?”

“No.” There’s no way for Jack to see his smile in the dark, he has to do all the levity with his voice. “I figure any time I kick myself in the sutures it’s the universe telling me I should be awake.”

“Jesus,” Jack makes an abortive reach for him. “Are you alright?”

“Fine, fine.” Not enough humour in it, then. Or maybe it’s one of those jokes you can’t get on two legs. “What stars were you looking at?”

“Oh — all of them, I guess. I don’t really know any of the names.”

There’s a distraction he can use. “Do you want me to point a couple out to you?”

Jack’s nodding and Eugene finds himself wondering what his face might look like now. “You like that kind of thing?”

“My dad taught me some.” It feels strange to admit that here, somehow. He can’t remember the last time he mentioned Ben Woods to anyone. “There,” he rushes on, jamming a crutch more firmly under his arm so he can point at the stars clumped above them, “that bright one’s Polaris. North star. You’ve heard of that, right?”

“Yeah,” Jack moves closer, trying to follow his pointing finger. Not quite all the way into his personal space, but close enough that he can feel the heat off him, get a sense of someone’s skin just a couple inches from his own.

“So from there, do you see those stars there, there and there?” he traces the shape in the broadest gestures he can, nearly getting Jack in the face with his elbow, most likely. The sleeve of his shirt catches against something, but if it’s Jack he doesn’t say anything. “That’s the Little Dipper.”

“And that’s the big one over there, right?” Jack points, and this time it’s Eugene’s turn to lean out of the way of an arm. “The dipper, I mean.”

“I thought you didn’t know any constellations.”

“I dunno,” he shrugs, and there’s that shyness again. “Everybody knows that one. Could you show me another? Maybe we could sit somewhere?”

“What,” Eugene grins, “you don’t want to lie on the ground some more?”

“Ground’s cold,” Jack says, and Eugene would swear he just stuck his tongue out at him. “Let’s find a bench somewhere.”

…

“Oh,” Jack says, a little too loud. “Like in _Harry Potter_?”

“Wow,” Eugene sighs back, sparing a glance at the nearest sentry, up at the corner of the wall, “you really are a nerd, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m a nerd for knowing the name of a main villain in the biggest commercial book-to-film franchise of the millennia, but you’re cool for being able to point out a bunch of stars shaped kind of like a snake,” Jack scoffs, listing to the left until he’s pushing Eugene off balance with his weight and has to be shoved away.

“I liked _The Lord of the Rings_ better,” Eugene says, and Jack gasps like he’s pinched him.

“Nerd!”

“I said I liked them,” he protests. “It’s not like I know the name of every sword and bow or anything.”

“Oh my God, you totally do, don’t you?” Jack says with relish. “Go on, what’s Frodo’s called?”

“Sting is a plot point,” Eugene mumbles. “They mention it by name in the film.”

“And Aragorn’s?

He shouldn’t rise to the challenge. “Anduril. Forged from the shards of Narsil by the elves.”

“Oh my God,” Jack says again.

“Shut up,” he should stop laughing. It’s hard to keep quiet laughing. But there’s something about the way Jack’s going off that that makes it hard not to join in and harder still to stop once he’s started.

“And you had the utter gall to call me a nerd,” Jack shakes his head, movement big and theatrical enough to translate in the dark. “Eugene Woods, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Eugene swipes at his eyes, tries to get his smirk under control. “You’re very cool.”

“Jerk.”

“Yeah.”

Jack seems to mull that over. “Are you tired?”

He’s pretty sure he’s the only one reading too much into that question. “I don’t think I’m sleeping tonight. You?”

“No. Do you know any more constellations?”

“Only winter ones.” He leans back against the bench, lets his head fall back until there’s nothing in his vision but stars. Block out the walls and the moans and the leg and Jack next to him and it could be any night in the Rockies as a kid. And if he could believe that, maybe he could trick himself into enjoying the food here too. “Or — oh, I could show you that one.”

“Hm?”

The sweatshirt’s on the small side, elastic straining when he pushes it up past his elbow, leaving his forearm exposed. “Here,” he turns it belly up, holds it up to Jack’s face for inspection. “I don’t know if you can see it now, but I’ve got this thing…”

“Wait, let me,” Jack’s elbow connects with his ribs as he digs something out of his pocket, but it’s not a solid hit. A tap, and the iPod screen shines faint on his skin, just enough to illuminate black dots and thin lines. The ink near his wrist’s blown out more than he remembers, but maybe it’s just a trick of the light. “Oh, I wondered what that was.”

“Monoceros,” he flexes his fingers, not sure what to do with his hand. Jack’s face is almost pressed against his arm, breath warm and a little damp. “It’s next to Orion, but you need a telescope to see it most of the time.”

“Oh God, you were the kid with the telescope in his room, weren’t you?” Jack breathes out, eyes still on the tattoo.

“Back yard.” Fingers wrap around his wrist, and he forces himself not to move as Jack gently tilts his arm to a better viewing angle. He started this. His invitation. No reason to get jumpy. “My dad showed me how to pick it out.”

“What’s a monoceros?” Jack asks, stroking a thumb down the line connecting the constellation’s back legs to front.

“It’s,” he has to swallow, can’t find the word off the top of his head, “uh, a unicorn. In Greek. Mono ceros — one horn, right?”

Jack whips his head up, and the look in his eyes is all mischief. “You’ve got a unicorn tattoo?”

“Hah,” Eugene pulls his arm back, shaking out the effort of holding it still. “If you think that’s funny I’m not showing you the rest.”

“There’s more?” he looks like a kid in a candy store, eyes darting about, looking for hints on what little exposed skin Eugene’s showing this time of night. “How many have you got?”

You’d think he’d know by now, but he finds himself counting it out on his fingers as always. “Thirteen.” Except that’s not quite right these days. “Or, twelve now, I guess.”

Jack starts to say something, and Eugene can see it, the moment when it all clicks into place. Even easier to hear in the tone of his voice. “You’ll have to show me the rest some time.”

Nice, pleasant, never mind the very slight change of subject. Eugene’s still not tired, but he could almost believe he was. “Some time. Yeah.” Of all the places he wants to be looking now, Jack’s face is low on the list. He lets his eyes drift down. “You want to listen to some music?”

“Could do. Battery’s nearly kicked, though.”

“Forgot to charge it again?”

“Too much listening in the dark.” He thumbs the click wheel, and the light from the screen isn’t enough to say whether that expression’s embarrassment or something else. “I was hoping it might help. Used to do the trick at bedtime on the road — though I guess that might have been more about getting four hours a night than anything.”

“Rough.” Looking back, he’s amazed anyone got any sleep outside of Abel. He’s lost the ability to imagine it with anything but complete panic.

“Kind of serves me right, though,” Jack says, thoughtful. “I, um, might have slept through the first day of the whole apocalypse thing.”

Even in the darkness, he hopes the weight of his stare is enough to get his disbelief across.

“Yeah, don’t do drugs, kids,” Jack mumbles, and Eugene has to choke down another howl of laughter. “If it helps, I don’t think I closed my eye for 48 hours after I woke up. Nothing like coming round to find an undead club kid getting glitter and blood all over your jumper to wake a guy up.”

“God, no,” he laughs, but it comes out queasy. “You’re lucky you got away.”

“All in the reflexes.” He’s smiling, but it’s not convincing. “I guess I was hoping it was one of those funny drug reactions that makes you all bitey. Would’ve called 999 but they’d already lost service—”

“That was down in the first four hours,” Eugene says. “Don’t feel like you missed it by a hair or anything.”

“So I just kept running, hoping I’d run into someone who knew what to do.”

He remembers that feeling. “Find anyone?” No response. “Jack?”

“I met up with this guy for a bit.” He sounds far away. Looks it too. They’re not sitting any differently, but somehow he’s pulled back. “Older. Probably in his 50s or 60s, I didn’t ask. I saved him from a group of zoms, he gave me my first meal that wasn’t, like, a can of beans I found in a ditch.”

Eugene can already he tell he doesn’t want to know more. “How did he get bitten?”

“Didn’t.” There’s a sour note in Jack’s voice. Forced, false cheer that doesn’t mask the strain they cant seem to get away from. “Tripped on a rock and scratched himself with a garden fork after running it through a couple of shamblers. I told him we should’ve picked up some wipes for that thing, but did he listen?”

It’s impossible to respond to that. There isn’t a thing he could say that would mean anything, have any real impact. “I’m sorry.”

“Nah,” Jack shakes his head, motion right on the edge of violent. “Zombies, right? Happens.”

Can’t argue that. “How long did the two of you travel together?”

“Couple of weeks maybe.” Jack’s still fiddling with the iPod, chin tucked against his chest so even with the light it’s hard to see his face. “Not long.”

Something doesn’t feel like it’s fitting together right here. He’s not saying the story isn’t terrible, but — he’ll admit it. This seems like an overreaction. God knows what it says about life now that he could even think that. “What did you do after that?”

“Kept to myself, mostly,” Jack shrugs. “Seemed easier. I still had music for company. And W.G.”

“You didn’t travel with anyone else? Ever?”

When Jack finally looks up whatever humour he was trying for is gone. “I don’t like watching people die.”

This conversation just doesn’t get easier, does it? “With all these people you must be going crazy here after being alone like that.”

“No. I mean — sometimes, I guess. I don’t know,” Jack nudges his arm. “I do like having someone to talk to who talks back.”

“I’m better company than the cricket bat?” Oh God, what a relief to be back on certain ground. “Good compliment.”

“I do what I can.” He grins, gives Eugene’s arm another nudge and, huh, have they been sitting with their hands that close all along? Can’t have been. But Jack’s fingers are curled against his on the bench. Jack’s grin slips a little, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, and this time there’s no mistaking it for anything but deliberate when he brushes the pads of his fingers over the back of Eugene’s hand, cups his knuckles in his palm and slides his fingers into the spaces between his own.

So. That’s happening.

“We should listen to some music,” Eugene says, gently, and pulls his hand away.

If he hadn’t seen it so many times in other contexts, maybe he would buy the fake smile Jack throws his way. “Rock, pop, electronic or hip hop?”

…

The tape doesn’t want to stick. Might be the humidity, or a bad roll, but she’s guessing it’s the ointment Dr. Myers smeared across her knuckles causing the trouble. That’s what she gets for letting Sam fuss her into getting a few scrapes checked out. The crawler didn’t even hardly touch her ankle. It’s her own fault for being startled and going over into that hedge. And besides, she’d showed it who was boss in short order, hadn’t she?

She takes her thumb off the hockey stick’s grip and her newly placed tape goes slipping off, unravelling to the floor. Alice mutters a curse to herself and rips the whole useless piece away from the roll with her teeth. She doesn’t have supplies to waste any more than anyone else, and what other runner’s going to put hockey tape near the top of a priority list? Nothing for it — she’s going to have to let the damn antibacterial cream dry.

If she goes crazy waiting, she’s setting the blame square on Sam’s shoulders.

The front flap of the med tent rustles, and she breathes a sigh of relief. There are at least two other runners due back from the field. If she’s lucky, it’ll be one of them come to keep her company until the doctor get back to prescribe them some Tiger Balm or a knee wrap. Whoever it is, it can’t be anything more serious than that, or they’d have got the same operator escort she did. Forget the zom, it’s Sam who practically chased her across the quad once the gate went down.

“Hello?”

“Hi Eugene.” Not quite what she was hoping for, but at least it’s not one of the chatty civilians. Small talk was bad enough before the apocalypse. Now all that’s left is the weather and rations and who's still got a clean pair of drawers. At least the runners offer more variety.

“Oh,” he’s polite, but it’s pretty obvious she’s not who he was hoping to find either. “I thought Maxine would be here.”

“Training.” She holds her hockey stick out to him, grease on her knuckles catching and reflecting the light. “Hey, you’re Canadian, right? You know how to tape one of these?”

He frowns at it, but she can tell all the same he’s pleased to be asked. “Maybe. Just the handle?”

“We’ll start there. See how you do.” She waits until he’s sitting to pass the stick. The tape she throws. He’s not much of a catcher. But after a couple seconds of hesitation he’s alright with the wrapping process.

“How’s that?” he holds up the first few inches of newly taped stick for her approval.

“Good enough for the undead,” Alice says. “What did you need the doc for?”

“Nothing important,” Eugene bends over the stick — hunches, one could say. “Do you have scissors?”

“Teeth,” she says, and makes a dismayed face to mirror his own. “Come on, what is it? I’ve always wanted to do the agony aunt bit.”

“What?”

“No one comes looking for someone with that face if they don’t have gossip.” She blows at her knuckles, cold air stinging the rawer flesh. “Spill.”

“No thanks.” Eugene grimaces, and bites at the tape.

“I promise not to tell Sam,” she offers. “That’s a better deal then you’ll get from her.”

She can’t tell if he’s thinking it over, or it’s just the tape is stronger than it looks. Doesn’t get any clearer when it finally rips in two, and Eugene sets to trying to get the glue residue out of his mouth without actually spitting on the hospital floor.

“Is there any water around?’

“Haven’t seen any.”

Eugene makes another face. “You want me to do the rest of it?”

“Let me see the handle again?” She leans forward, makes a show of inspecting the work. “Continue.”

He’s halfway through re-taping the blade of the stick before he speaks again. “Is there a good way to tell someone to leave you alone?”

“Hey,” she folds her arms across her chest, “I only asked you what was wrong twice.”

“What? Oh, no. Not you.” He shakes his head, fingers fumbling on the tape, nearly sticking it to itself where it comes off the roll. “Never mind.”

She’s worn him down after all. What do you know. “Wouldn’t have thought you’d have any trouble telling someone to fuck off.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” As though the guilty little frown on his face doesn’t give it away that he knows. Alice stares back at him, arms still crossed, until he has to look away. “I don’t want to be a dick about it, ok?”

“I don’t think there is a nice way to do it,” she says. “Is Runner Three still bothering you? Because you don’t have to let him down easy. I think it might even encourage him.”

“Ugh,” Eugene gives a little mock shudder that seems almost too theatrical on him. “Thank God, no.”

“Who it is?” Come to think of it, Sam did put that camera back up in the cafeteria. And even if Janine is worried about someone stealing food, she wouldn’t have got him to put it up during meal time when everyone would notice. Only Dr. Myers is that kind of nuts. Damn it, they’ve been playing Cupid without her again. She and Yao are going to have words.

He hesitates. Embarrassed? “Have you met Jack?”

Abel’s got at least a couple Jacks, but she doubts he’s talking about the toddler in the family dorms. “The new runner?” A nod. “He’s fit,” Alice says. “You should go for it.”

Eugene’s look suggests this isn’t the answer he was looking for. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s… not a good time.”

That might be the funniest thing she’s heard all day. Maybe even since Francesca tried to convince her the white stuff at dinner last night was rice. “Oh love, when exactly do you think there’s going to be a good time?”

…

“Nothing’s going to happen,” Simon says, snapping Jack away from the staring contest he’s been having with middle distance.

“Say what?”

“We’re still in range of the guards, and Sam said there hasn’t been a zom sighting within a half mile all day,” Runner Three stretches his arms up, one hand tugging at a bent elbow behind his head. “You can relax.”

“I’m not scared,” Jack huffs.

“Good,” Dy. Myers’ voice comes through the headset with a strange, metallic echo. “Because I think Runner Three just jinxed you. Looks like there are a pair of zoms headed your way. Jack, are you okay to head away from the township? You two should be able to shake them off in no man’s land and… We’re low on bullets.”

“Why don’t we take care of them ourselves?” he suggests, hand going to W.G., strapped alongside his pack. Not for the first time, he’s glad he came into Abel with a weapon deemed light enough for field work.

“Negative,” her voice goes stern, and Jack has a feeling he’s not the first new recruit she’s had this fight with. “Runners don’t engage in the field if we can help it. There may be only two zoms now, but the longer you stop—“

Simon makes a series of biting and chewing nosies that are entirely too realistic.

“Can I hit him instead?” Jack asks.

“Permission granted,” Dr. Myers sighs. “Head north into open country. Jack, watch your breathing.”

Jack glances back over his shoulder. The zombies aren’t much more than specks of grey at this point. Still feels strange to be headed in the opposite direction. Fights always did help to break up the days on the road.

“Doing well today, aren’t you?” Simon says as they settle onto a narrow dirt trail worn into the grass.

“Thanks.” He’s sweating more than Three, and there’s a sore feeling building in his throat, but all in all, it is a good run. What would him from four or five months ago say if he could see him now?

Well, alright. Past hime would probably be more interested in having a couple stiff drinks and any other substance he could lay hands on as quick as possible. Maybe he’d get some chips as well. No, an ice cream cone. And a lamb curry from that one place by his parents’ house, with extra naan. Might as well dream big.

“Not many people can get up with sunrise and still manage a good afternoon run,” Simon adds, and Jack had a strange feeling of foreboding. “Course, I always like a good pre-dawn stretch. Clears the head, you know.”

He’s been made. Oh well. There’s not any rules against sitting on benches at half four in the morning, right? Even Janine doesn’t seem the type to micro-manage that much. “I didn’t see you this morning.”

“I thought you looked busy.” He grins, and it’s pure trouble. “Did you and Eugene have a nice night?”

The doctor’s gasp is just more trouble. “Lauchlan! And you didn’t tell me?”

“It’s not what you think,” Jack says.

Wasn’t even what he thought, was it?

“What happened?” Dr. Myers says.

“Oh, I’m sure it wasn’t anything,” Simon says. “Just two friends sharing headphones in the moonlight, right Jack?”

“It wasn’t—“ Wasn’t what? Romantic? Wasn’t about the nicest date he’s been on in ages, once you get past the zombies? “Just forget it.”

“Come on,” Dr. Myers protests. “You can’t hold out on us like that.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Jack says. “Neither could he. That’s all.”

It’s not though. It’s not all. Not a bit all.

He’d really thought he was reading the signals right. Eugene had seemed like he was enjoying it too — enjoying Jack — right up until he clearly wasn’t. And it had been nice, for once, to have a moment that wasn’t all life or death. To have a little flirt and bump Eugene’s shoulder with his own and imagine for a couple of hours that if he went for it there might be more to have than that.

Now, best he can hope for is that he hasn’t made things so awkward that Eugene doesn’t want to talk to him ever again.

“Well, keep trying,” Dr. Myers says, consoling. “Oh, and head east over that footbridge. You can lose the zoms in the park.”

…

“I don’t believe it,” Maggie says, stabbing another row of peas onto the tines of her fork.

“I’m telling you, Runner Seven and I both saw him,” Jody says. “Didn’t we?” Further down the table, Evan Deaubl makes a good show of examining his own peas for flaws. Jody clears her throat, trying to catch his attention. No good.

“Well, that’s a vote of confidence,” Six says.

“He’s the one who spotted him first,” Jody protests, and flicks a pea at him. There’s more bend to the plastic utensils they’re using than she’s anticipated. The pea bounces of Evan’s cheek and goes hurtling into space. Thank God Eight’s on a late run. Runner food fights always seem to make there way back to Janine when Sara’s around. She’d be in for a lecture on wasting supplies for sure.

“Runner Four,” Evan starts, though he sounds more confused than admonishing.

“Tell them what we saw,” Jody says, and readies her fork for another volley.

“‘Saw’ is a strong word,” Seven says. And for all he’s about three times her size, she’s gratified when he flinches like he’s about to duck when she starts to bend the fork backwards again. “All I said was, with that hair it could have been—“

“Zombie Prince Harry,” Jody bursts out. “I told you Mags.”

“It was missing half a face,” Evan says apologetically. “Hard to say for sure.”

“Zombie Prince Harry,” Jody repeats, glaring at him.

“Someone should start a blog,” Runner Two says. “Like TMZ for celebrity zombie encounters.”

“Someone should get the internet working more than two hours every three days first,” Alice thumps her tray down across the table before dropping into her usual seat. “What did I miss?”

“Four saw a ginger zom,” Three calls down the table.

“Oh, who was it this time?” Alice asks, leaning over her plate conspiratorially. “Don’t say Karen Gillan. Sam’s still holding out hope.”

“Nah, bloke this time,” Simon says, grinning when Jody glares at him. “Guess again.”

“It wasn’t just me,” she protests. “Evan—“

“Do you ever feel like we’re going around in circles?” Seven mutters to no one in particular.

“All of you, shut up.” There’s no room left on the bench but Dr. Myers slides in anyway, pushing Two’s elbow into Jody’s side on the right and cramming her up against El Khwargo — still shovelling veg into his mouth like his personal space hasn’t been abruptly and intensely violated — on the left.

“Ow.”

“Hey!”

“Sorry Jo.”

“Doc, what’s going on?”

“Ssh,” Dr. Myers hisses, half rising out of her seat before ducking down so she’s hidden behind Alice and Evan. “Act casual. I’m spying.”

Every head at the table whips in the direction she’s just looked, Jody’s included. Dy. Myers sighs.

“So,” Six says, “what are we looking at?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Jody can see Maxine’s glaring at all of them. “Back corner table, left side.”

The dining hall isn’t too busy this early, but there’s still a mess of people to see through. It takes a good few seconds of peering, not to mention getting on her knees to look over Seven, before she spots another familiar head of ginger hair. Jack’s got his back to the room, head down and shoulders up. Across the table, Eugene’s staring off into space, head propped on one hand. Jody can’t tell if he hasn’t noticed all the staring or if he’s just ignoring it.

“What are they doing?” Simon asks.

“Nothing.” She doesn’t know why Maxine’s still whispering. “The only thing they’ve said to each other was ‘hello.’”

“How can you—“ Six starts, and Maxine turns her head to show off a bluetooth earpiece with a guilty expression.

“How much of the room do you and Sam have bugged?” Evan asks, frowning.

“You reckon they did have a moonlight tryst?” Simon asks, and everyone’s head snaps in his direction. “Not that you heard that from me.”

“No, look at the body language,” Maggie says. “Jack’s all closed off and Eugene’s not even on this planet. That doesn’t say a night of passion to me.”

“Maybe it was bad sex,” Alice suggests.

“Wait, Jack’s gay?”

“Pretty gay, David,” Simon says.

Runner Two sighs. “No one tells me nothing.”

“Look,” Jody hisses, motioning across the room to where Eugene’s starting to get to his feet. “I think he’s saying something.”

“I think it counteracts the whispering if you point at them, Four.”

“Shut up,” she flicks another pea, and now that she’s got a sense of the recoil it’s not so difficult to bounce it right off Simon’s nose. Alice offers a round of polite applause.

“What are they saying, Dr. Myers?” Evan asks, surprisingly solemn.

“Hold on,” Maxine puts a hand to her earpiece, mouth turning down in thought. “Eugene’s saying… oh. ‘See you later.’”

“And?” Jody’s gratified to hear at least half the table ask the question along with her.

Maxine’s frown of concentration turns into an outright frown. “Nothing else. Just, ‘see you later.’”

…

Eugene doesn’t see Jack again for two full days.

He has to admit, he’s a little impressed. He wouldn’t have guessed the township was big enough for that kind of avoidance.

It’s not like he notices, much. The runners bring in a shipment of hypodermics and disinfectant, so there’s cataloguing and cleaning to do. And Runner Ten’s latest experiment on zombie behaviours keeps him busy in the comms shack charting the movements of a pair of zoms tagged with neon spray paint while Chris knee lifts his way up successively steep sets of stairs and Sam ignores them both in favour of running real missions on the remaining monitors.

It’s only meals where Jack’s absence is all that obvious. Meals, and those couples hours of free time in the evening — but a good book solves that. Well, a book. Half a book. At least whoever scooped up the torn copy of _The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo_ he claimed at the rec centre picked up the back half.

So, yeah. It’s nothing. Meals and nights. Who even cares? Maxine, maybe, if the way she keeps staring at him when he’s not looking is anything to go by. Whatever. It’s fine.

Day three is another laundry rotation for the hospital. Towels, a few blankets, maybe an hour’s work to fold before he’s at loose ends. Maxine sees two patients — one case of the sniffles, one splinter deep enough to warrant a bandaid — and spends the rest of the morning pretending to work on medical charts and playing solitaire. No new runners to train, now that Jack’s in the field.

Eugene takes his 0.5 of a Stieg Larsson to the back, claims a cot and stretches out to read.

He’s lingering over a description of a sandwich (cheese, caviar and hard boiled egg — God it’s not even fair) when a shadow falls across the page.

Maxine’s got her hands on her hips, expression strangely fixed. “Eugene, I need you to do me a favour.”

“Okay?” He folds the page over, marking his spot. He’s coming back to that sandwich.

“Runner Four and Nineteen found a supply of double A batteries and they’re taking them over to the armoury when they get back. I need you to go down there and make sure we get at least five packs for the hospital.”

It’s not a particularly odd request, but the way she’s still staring at him doesn’t seem promising. “Why can’t you go?”

“Can’t,” Maxine says. “Meeting.”

“Meeting who?”

“Meeting,” she says again. “Very important. And you should get out more.”

“Right.” They stare at each other for too many beats, and when he gets up to leave she follows close enough behind him that he’s almost pushed out of the tent, even if she never lays a hand on him. Thank God Maxine went to med school instead of somewhere like the NSA. The woman couldn’t run a covert op if it killed her.

The quad is quiet and when he gets there, the armoury empty. Eugene finds a crate the right height for sitting and settles in to meet his fate.

Jack, thankfully, is punctual today. Only take him five minutes, max, to come through the door, red-cheeked and sweating some at the temples, bulging rucksack slung over one shoulder. At least Maxine wasn’t lying about the batteries.

“Runner Nineteen, I presume?” Eugene drawls.

Whoever sent Jack this way is a better liar than the doctor, judging from the way his eyes go wide. “Oh. Hey.”

“How was the run?” Eugene holds out a hand and Jack frowns at it. Frowns is too strong. Stares at it with an intently neutral expression. “I’m supposed to raid your supplies for the hospital. Hand me your bag?”

He doesn’t quite throw it, but if they were a little closer the way he swings it by its straps would be dangerous. “Jody didn’t say anyone was meeting me.”

“So Jody’s in on it. Interesting.” The bag smells of canvas and dirt and more than a little like sweat. He counts out a half dozen packs of batteries for Maxine, piles them in a neat little stack on the crate beside him. “Do you want to talk?”

Jack’s still doing that expression that’s no expression at all. “Do you?”

Eugene shrugs.

“Could we just pretend I didn’t make a tit of myself?” Jack’s picking at the seam of his running shorts with one hand. “Be friends like before?”

“Sure.”

“Seriously, though.” The mask’s starting to crack, mouth dipping at the corners. “All alright?”

“Yeah.” It’s not a lie. It’s what he wants. Status quo. So why does he feel like he’s spoiling for a fight?

“You want to meet up at the rec later?” Jack still doesn’t look convinced. “Runner Ten found Settlers of Catan.”

“Maybe.” Now that is a lie. He likes Chris McShell better than most, but board game night with the runners is a bridge he’s not crossing, not for anyone. “You had lunch yet?”

“Just got back,” Jack says, indicating the sweat and the still-fading redness and the shorts with a pass of his hand. “You?”

“Not yet. Meet you there in half an hour?” That ought to be enough time to find Maxine and shout beforehand.

“I’ll see you then,” Jack’s smile is all relief, and Eugene’s pretty sure he’s not worth even a tenth of it.

…

Maxine shows up for lunch with a hat pulled low over her head, wearing an uncharacteristic elastic-cuffed sweatshirt with the logo for a youth football club stitched across the front. When she sits down at the runners’ table, Simon, Jody, Evan, Alice and Maggie all turn in the direction of Eugene’s usual spot without further prompting.

“Guys, come on.” She’s already suffered through one bout of the patented Eugene-Woods-is-very-disappointed-in-you look. They don’t need to go for another lap.

“Sorry, doc, you started it.” Runner Three does not sound sorry. “What’s the status update on our lovebirds?”

“I sent Jack to the armoury like you asked,” Jody chimes in with the kind of sweet, honest concern Simon wouldn’t recognize if it knocked him on the head and stuffed him in a shallow grave. “Did they have a talk?”

“I can’t tell,” she sighs. Eugene could have gotten laid in the armoury and he’d probably still be irritated that she’d interfered in his personal life. “What do you think?”

“Does that mean we can look again?” Six asks, as though she’d stopped at any point, or isn’t turned the wrong way round on the bench.

“Try to be subtle?” Maxine sighs, as though the opposite isn’t a foregone conclusion.

“They’re eating together again,” Jody says. “That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”

“And they’re talking about something,” Maggie adds. “Can’t you go by what they’re saying?”

“Eugene ripped the headset out from under the table again,” Maxine says with a what-you-gonna-do shrug. Sam’s got to come up with a better way of tapping this place. “Anyone else have any observations to share with the class?”

“Not together,” Simon says, decisive.

“How do you figure?” Maggie asks.

“If those two hook up, I bet they don’t show up until lunch the next day,” Three grins and rolls his shoulders. “Lot of tension there to work out, if you get my drift.”

“No,” Alice says drily. “Elaborate, why don’t you?”

“Well—“ Simon says with relish.

Jody flings her fork, baked beans speared on the tines and all, at his head.

…

“No, Mr. Yao,” Janine says, words roughs at the edges thanks to the the spanner clenched in her teeth.

“All I’m asking is, is it possible?” Sam asks. God, Maxine owes him so much for this. Any and all snacks from here until eternity. Assuming he gets out of this conversation alive and with all his teeth. It doesn’t seem like that’s a given with Janine. Not when she’s got her tools with her.

“I am not making you a ‘spy device,’” even with her hands busy twisting wires, he can see the air quotes. “We need those resources for legitimate purposes.”

“What about a smaller headset?” He suggests. “We could use it for — for undercover missions?”

“What undercover missions?”

Sam tries to think of an answer for that and can’t.

“Tell Doctor Myers there are other ways of conducting effective surveillance,” Janine says, removing the spanner from her mouth and using it to do something to something deep inside the, uh, whatever that is she’s working on. “Sara may have some useful advice for her.”

It takes so, so much longer than it ought to for Sam to figure out who the hell ‘Sara’ is supposed to be. “Why do you think Runner Eight would know about spying?”

“She is a most resourceful woman,” Janine says. Coming from her, that has to be the equivalent of knighthood.

…

“Arcade Fire?”

“No.”

“The Shins?”

“No.”

“AC/DC?”

“Still no.”

Eugene sighs and flicks at the iPod again. “Ella Fitzgerald. Final offer.”

Jack thinks it over. “Deal.”

“About time,” a click and a spin on the volume wheel and the sound of a trumpet spills out their headphones.

_Stars shining bright above you_  
 _Night breezes seem to whisper ‘I love you…’_

Well, that was a bad idea.

“So, what are you doing tomorrow?” His voice sounds too loud, but maybe that’s just the effect of the earbud.

“Got a run.” Jack’s head is tilted all the way back, to the point where it looks like it ought to be painful, chin pointed at the sky. But his voice is dreamy, peaceful. “Doc says I can go all the way to Skoobs and back on my own.”

“Oh, one of those missions,” Eugene says. At least Maxine might get a little less tense for the next few days. And to be honest, he wouldn’t say no if she offered to share. Pot does nothing for his leg, but nothing else works half as well on his shoulders after a day on crutches.

“One of what missions?” Jack asks. God bless him, the boy doesn’t know.

“No one told you what they grow at Skoobs?” He’s not going to laugh too soon and ruin it. He is better than that. 

“Vegetables?” He looks hopeful. “I miss tomatoes.”

“Try a little less healthy and a little more,” Eugene searches for the right word, “recreational.”

He’s never seen Jack’s eyes go so wide. “No.”

“Yup.”

“No, you’re joking.”

“Honest to god,” Eugene says, hand over his heart and the whole bit. “Strictly for medical purposes, of course.”

“Yeah, medicine, of course,” Jack bobs his head. “So, the doctor doesn’t share then?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

He grins, buffs his nails against his shirt. Purely for the motion. No way this shirt’s shining anything after two weeks of wear. “On who you know.”

“Ooh.” That’s enough to finally make him sit up and, huh, that eyelash fluttering is disconcerting. “Think you could hook a guy up?”

Eugene pretends to consider it, until Jack shoves him hard enough that he nearly loses the headphone.

…

“Looking good, Nineteen,” Sam says, and Jack preens in spite of himself. He does feel good. The sun’s out, his feet feel solid against the ground, and Abel’s scanners show the nearest swarm of zoms is a good ten miles away. And, being honest, he doesn’t think he’s been this excited about the possibility of weed since he left school. What’s not to like?

“Cheers, Sam. Anything to watch for?” There’s not a lot in the way of scenery between here and Skoobs, unless you like grass and badly maintained roads and a lonely little petrol station hunkered down in the distance that Jack knows for a fact makes a pretty decent hostel. The way’s probably barren by design. Anything pretty to look at would almost certainly become a permanent hiding spot for zoms. Nothing but one jump scare after another.

“Nah, not unless there’s some interesting clouds today,” Sam says, and then seems to catch himself. “Not that you should look anywhere but straight ahead. And, and behind you. Things like that. Can you see Skoobs yet?”

He squints at the horizon. Seems like there might be a faint black smudge of something, but at this distance it could be anything. “Nada.”

“Oh man, it’s pretty great. Reminds me of one of the dorms back at uni.”

“So it smells like feet and all the straight blokes have that poster of two girls kissing?” Jack grins.

“Well, kind of the feet thing, yeah,” Sam says. “They’ve got, like, those multicoloured prayer flags strung up over the gate. It’s nice. I tried to tell Janine we should do the same, but she wasn’t into it.”

“Maybe she’s worried it would overshadow all the people up top with guns.” He means it as a joke, but now that he thinks about it, it’s probably not far from the truth. “What did you go to school for?”

“Oh, you know,” he can hear the way Sam slides down in his chair. “Stuff. Engineering, I guess.”

“Better that me,” Jack says. “Art history. Not much call now.”

“Yeah, guess not.” He’s gone a bit absent, and Jack thinks he can hear a clack of a keyboard through the headset. “Huh…”

“Red alert?”

“No, just,” a pause, more keystrokes. “Could have sworn there were nearly 50 zoms over in the southeast quadrant.”

“Maybe it was the southwest?” Jack suggests. “Northeast?”

“I’ll check,” he doesn’t sound convinced. “Keep to your course. Way’s still clear for you.”

“Aye aye.” He tilts his face up to the sun, letting his eyes slip closed. Going to serve him right if he trips over a stone, but the warmth on the eyelids is a cheap kind of soothing. And what’s a little dirt?

With the comm gone silent and his eyes closed his footfalls seem loud on the packed earth. Somewhere, faint and far off, he thinks he might hear the trill of a bird. Couple of birds, maybe, having a catch up. He blinks his eyes open, and it’s still nothing but green and that same distant smudge.

“You know what we need for these runs?” Jack says. “Little bit of music. No lyrics, nothing distracting. But maybe you could find some action film soundtracks. And I’ve got a bit of ambient stuff back at the base. Might even be good for some classical. I took a music appreciation elective, and that Mozart guy, gotta tell you, he had a few good—“

“Oh God,” Sam whispers into the mic, like he’s not heard a word of it.

The sun doesn’t seem quite as warm as it did a minute ago.

“Sam?”

“I — crap — Runner Nineteen, I need you to come back. Or. No. No, I need you to keep going, but faster. I think that’s, yeah, that’s good. We’ll do that. I need to get Janine. I need — just go. Keep running. I’ll be right back.”

“Wait,” but the line’s dead, shut down entirely.

Run, Sam said, but Jack’s feet have gone mindless on him, left stumbling into the space the right one wants to go. He lurches to a stop. Still nothing to see but green, but sky, but the smudge, higher than before, curling up into the blue like

Oh.

Like smoke.

Jack runs.

…

“I don’t know if I can help you,” Sara says, not looking down as she strips the gun on the cafeteria table to its component parts with an ease that makes Maxine feel both unsure and slightly jealous.

“Come on,” a minute in and she’s already whining. Eight’s not quite old enough for it, doesn’t look the part at all, but Maxine has the uncomfortable feeling she’s talking to her mother. “I promise to use your powers only for good.”

“You know the first rule of a covert op?” She spreads the gun pieces out neatly on a cloth, pulls a little squeeze bottle of something or other and a wire brush towards her. “Typically, you don’t tell the mark what you’re doing.”

“Okay, that’s fair.” Maxine allows. “What if I got someone else to,” she scans her memory for an official term. Thank God Paula always liked _Law and Order_. “To run the operation on deep cover?”

“He’ll be watching for it,” Sara says, finally breaking eye contact and bending over the gun. “And you won’t get away with another wire tap either.“

“You heard about that?”

Sarah doesn’t bother answering.

Maxine slumps. “So, that’s it?”

“You’ll have to gain his trust back,” she brushes into the grooves of the gun with the same care Maxine remembers putting into models the night before a Demons and Darkness session. Though of the two she’s sure cleaning a gun requires a less steady hand than touching up the house crest of an ice paladin.

“How?”

“It’ll be a long con,” Sara says. “You’ll have to convince him you’ve no interesting in spying, or in who he’s dating. With the damage you’ve done, it could take weeks. Months.”

She narrows her eyes, but Eight just keeps cleaning, and it’s not like that slight hint of a smirk playing over her lips is anything but a default expression. “Eugene didn’t tell you to say that to me, did he?”

Sara’s eyebrows go up, but not a surprised kind of up. Ironic, Maxine would say. “Now that would be interesting.”

“Not fair,” she groans. If Eugene thinks he’s winning this easily, he doesn’t know who he’s tangling with. “What’s he paying you? I’ll double it.”

Sara sets the gun down. “Intriguing proposition.”

“I can’t give you medical supplies,” she warns. Sara’s expression doesn’t change. Damn, the lady can bluff. This is not good. “But I’ve got a line on a three month supply of clean socks. My guy could hook you up.”

“Ankle or calf-length?”

“Both,” Maxine says, and never would she have thought she’d be trying to make sock heights sound seductive. “I can get them as high or low as you want.”

“Dr. Myers,” Sara says arching an eyebrow and, no, no, she’s definitely not — is she flirting? No. No. Can’t be. “I wouldn’t have thought—“

“Runner Five, Runner Eight, Runner Seven, and, uh, probably Runners One through Four, report to gates,” Sam’s voice is scratchy over the PA system, sharp squeal of feedback making both Maxine and Sara wince. “That’s runners One through Eight — Runner Six, you’d better come too — Runners One through Eight to the gates. Now.”

“What’s going on?” Maxine asks, and rolls her eyes at herself even as its coming out of her mouth. Eight’s better connected than she is, but she’s not exactly psychic.

“An emergency, I’d gather.” Sara rolls the bits of the gun up in her cloth, pushes them across the table. “Don’t lose that.”

Maxine tucks the gun into her labcoat pocket and races her for the exit. No need for anyone to yell for her. Sam’s voice on the intercom alone is enough to tell her she’s going to need the hospital ready.

…

Maxine bursts into the med tent with gunfire at her back. “Eugene, get a pot of water going on each of the burners. I want any equipment not in bags boiled, stat.”

Through the slit in the tarp he can hear the sound of the gate going up, of Sam’s voice on the intercom calling for Runners Nine and Ten now, along with the other eight. “What’s going on?”

“No idea,” she’s yanking a clean lab coat into place on her shoulders, already standing a few inches taller. “Do you remember what I told you about triage?”

“Gut wounds and anything spurting blood priority one, everything else gets a band-aid and a chair.” The pots are on one of the high shelves in the supply cabinet and he has to grab the shelf for balance, letting the crutch slide free from under his arm as he pushes onto his toes. Not a graceful moment, but from the noise he can hear behind him Maxine’s too busy to come reach stuff for him. They’re going to have to come up with a better system.

“Raise the gates,” Sam’s voice booms out through the speakers. He’s forgotten to switch off the main emergency channel. “Covering fire… Runners Nine, Ten, get out there. Now. It looks like the fire is drawing zombies out of the city, but if we take you out towards Land’s End Diner you’ve got a clear route to—“

The feed cuts out with a honk that makes him wince. His fingertips scrape along the edge of a pot, searching for the lip, the handle, something to latch onto other than smooth metal. Sam’s right to sound worried. A fire can’t be good. He’s seen the amount of effort Janine’s put into Abel’s own suppression system. It’s all sandbags and rain barrels, but there’s at least two people in charge of sprinting for each of them at the first sign of smoke. No one’s got supplies to lose to flames. And that’s leaving off how the undead seem to love fire, in spite of the claims of every Frankenstein movie going back to the beginning of cinema.

“Eugene,” Maxine snaps, and he stumbles forward, rattling the pot against its fellows. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

“I’ve got it, don’t worry.” The pot hits the counter with a bang and his fingers curl over the edge of the second. He won’t be able to carry them once they’re filled. Better to get the pots on the burners and bring the water in a jug. Won’t be as fast, but he can get at least a little liquid heating in each right away. That should be enough.

Wait.

He’s going to be fine?

“Who?”

He turns and Maxine’s staring at him, mouth open, frozen in the act of dragging another cot into the curtained-off section they set up as an operating theatre. “Jack,” she says, and it sounds like an apology. “It’s his solo run today.”

Eugene lets go of the cabinet and it’s a mistake. The crutch isn’t under him right, slides with his weight. If it weren’t for the counter space directly in front of him he’d be face down on the floor.

“He’s going to be fine,” Maxine says again.

He feels his lips move, jaw work, muscles flex his mouth open and shut. No words, though. “I have to get water,” he manages.

“Okay.” She scrapes the cot across the cement until fabric falls between them, leaving him alone with the sound of gunfire and his own breath rattling in his chest.

…

Too hot here. Everything melting. Least W.G. — good old, trusty old, reliable old W.G. — is wood. Catch fire if he sticks it in the flames, but anything metal would be red hot by now. And anything plastic — all he has to do is look at those nylon tents to get a glimpse of the future. Sparks eating outward, air rippling above.

Skoobs isn’t much different from Abel. Old farmhouse at the centre, tents and tin shacks and repurposed sheds spiralling out around it. Few little differences, though. The caved in roof, the collapsing walls on one side of the house. The jagged hole in the fence he’d run through, wide enough to drive a car through and still have room for zoms on either side. The smoke. The flames.

The bodies.

Not many, not as many as he’d have guessed. The settlement’s littler than Abel, twenty or thirty people, didn’t Sam say? But he’s only seen three or four. There was the one crispy black shape, right near the fence. He didn’t stop to look long. Maybe the rest got out.

If he doesn’t look at the farmhouse he can believe that.

Something gives way inside one of the sheds, tossing another shower of orange sparks airborne with a pop and a crackle. Faintly, he can hear words “…keep moving… horde of zombies… listening to me?”

Hurts to breathe. Not sure if it’s the heat of the air or the smoke making his lungs ache. Can’t keep running like this. Slow walk. What did they say back in school about fires? Stay below the smoke. He crouches but it’s no good. The air is thick and burnt and his chest throbs on every exhale.

“…help… on the way… Nineteen? Are you…”

He scrubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands, keeps his breathing shallow. Did any of the Skoobs villagers feel it when the roof caved in? The smoke could have got them first. God, let the smoke have got them first. Worms in his stomach, feels like he could throw up. Needs to get lower again. Air’s sweet down on his hands and knees, save for the dust he kicks up crawling.

Please let the smoke have got to them first. Let it have been quick.

Everything’s foggy, like an old movie with vaseline on the lens. He keeps his head down. Crawls. Another spark-pop somewhere. Roof’s collapsed completely.

Eyes squeezed shut isn’t any better. Face is there. Skin gone saggy, slivers of eyes bloodshot, mouth slack save for the rattle of the cough that becomes a death rattle becomes a moan. Bad time, really bad time for this. Can’t think about how slow he went how much it hurt how his face looked before he raised the bat. Needs to keep moving.

Forehead against the dirt and the air isn’t as clear as it was before. Arms are shaking, even down on his elbows. Too much.

“…Ten and Nine, to the gates. Runners Ten and Nine…”

God, please God let it have been quick.

Whimpering from somewhere. Faint over the hiss of the flames and the snap of burning timber. High and soft and pained.

Female.

Jack sits up so quick the blood rushing back to his head mades black spots dance in front of his eyes.

…

There is no observable evidence to suggest the undead have any taste for cooked meat.

The fire draws them all the same.

He’s been at Abel Township over a month now, but Chris McShell can’t say he’s familiarized himself with every runner. Most of them won’t volunteer for experiments in the field. He doesn’t blame them, much. Traversing the city for supplies only takes as long as the runner assigned to the job. Tracking the movements of a swarm can take two, three hours. Even with failsafes in place, even when observation is conducted from a distance of miles, most of Abel’s crew lacks the nerve for a sustained campaign.

So he doesn’t feel particularly bad when he can’t place the name of the man who breathes out “God it smells like roast supper out here,” in an unsteady Yorkshire accent.

Whichever runner he is, he’s not wrong.

By the time he and Runner Nine have caught up to the rest of the pack, the settlement is well engulfed. Orange flames lick up from roofs, sending roiling coils of black smoke skyward. Tar from the shingles, most likely. And — ah — a more than healthy store of dried cannabis for kindling, from the smell. With a city fire brigade they’d be lucky to have this under control by nightfall. Eleven people, nine axes, and the emergency med bag on his shoulder are unlikely to pass muster.

The earlier runners have thrown Skoobs’ gates wide, for all the good that does. Through the smoke Chris gets a glimpse of a figure — tall, black, rangier than you’d expect for the deep, booming voice.

“Runner Seven, Nine and I are at your six o’clock.”

“Right, sorry,” Sam’s never good at hiding the stress of the job the way the New Canton operators were, but he’s never sounded this frayed. “Chris has the med pack and Roman’s got noisemakers for three. With all this smoke my cameras — I can see you, but not clearly. It’s not great. Sorry.”

“Good,” Seven says. “What next?”

The silence from Sam’s end of the line says everything the boy himself can’t.

“Six, One, Three, back to the gates,” Seven barks out. “You’re on decoy duty.”

“Better out there than in here,” the woman’s voice in his ears is breathless, barley suppressing a cough, he’d guess. She stumbles out of the gates barely a beat later, shirt pulled up to cover her mouth and nose, face smeared ashy grey above it.

Seven claps her on the shoulder as she goes by, touch just heavy enough to turn her a few degrees, get her facing towards Runner Nine and his noise packs. “Four, Five and Two, get your weapons out. You’re on perimeter duty. Any zoms get within a mile of us, I want to know. The rest of you, with me.”

“You’ve got two miles breathing room now,” Sam says, a little steadier. “The biggest swarms are coming from the east. One, Three, you head that way. Six, you’ll go south to start. Everyone good?”

Scattered affirmatives fill his ears, but Seven’s headed through the gates and Chris doesn’t have time to wave goodbye. Even a few feet inside the walls the heat is blistering. Chris takes an inventory of charred tents, burned fields, tin shacks already black with soot. He doesn’t need statistics to know they’re too late.

Above his head, prayer flags flutter in bright primary colours, waiting for a spark to make the jump. 

“Runner Eight’s looking over the farmhouse. We’ll join up with her, find Runner Nineteen and fall back,” Evan says, soft, and Chris can’t tell if it’s pity that keeps him quiet or if he doesn’t want the row with Sam those orders will bring.

“Affirmative.”

Seven rummages in his bag, brings out a half-filled bottle of water. “Soak the top of your shirt, then cover your mouth and nose. And try not to take deep breaths.”

The fabric’s cool against his cheeks, welcome after the heat of the blaze. Runner Nine’s got it harder, full growth of beard to stuff under his shirt, but he manages. In the headset, Sam’s arguing strategy with Runner Five. Stand and fight versus run towards the horde and fight, sounds like. Irrelevant data. Chris tunes it out.

They find Eight where they expect to, bandana tied across her lower jaw, surveying the damage with her hands on her hips. She glances his way as they troop over, and there’s something in her eyes he recognizes, sets off a sympathetic ache deep in his chest that’s nothing to do with the smoke. Veronica would have hated it in a place like this, he reminds himself. Odd how that alleviates the symptoms.

“Any sign of the new bloke?” Nine asks, though between the accent and the shirt and the echo of his voice at half-second lag through the headset it’s a struggle to parse.

“Nothing yet.” She signals and they follow. “If the smoke gets any worse, we won’t be finding him unless he runs directly in front of us.”

Assumption being their missing runner is mobile and still here. Chris wonders how long either of those hypotheses will hold out.

“Fan out,” Seven sounds resigned. “We’ll sweep one wall to the other. If that doesn’t turn him up,“ he trails off. “Sam,” then again, louder, “Sam.”

“What is it, Seven?”

“Any intel for us on Nineteen’s last position?” Kindly said, frustration masked. All you could ask for from a head of runners.

“Northwest corner,” he sounds certain now. “Away from the farmhouse. I lost him in the smoke. We never got around to syncing our cameras up with Skoobs’ past the front gates. I guess — too late for that, right?”

The answer is too obvious to bother with.

“Did anyone,” tremor in Sam’s voice, must be dreading the question. “Are there any signs of survivors?”

“Nothing yet,” Eight says, blunt and flat. She had sons before the rising. Chris tries to remember if he’d ever heard their ages.

“Yeah, well,” more of a sigh than words. “The other runners are starting to break up the horde. You’ve got some time. Keep looking.”

Eight and Nine take the far walls, Seven the middle. Less than thirty seconds moving in opposite directions and they’re hazy, disappearing in the smoke. Chris picks his way past the charred remains of a tent, squinting at the far wall in the distance, calculating the time to walk there and back. Outdoors the smoke inhalation won’t kill them as quickly, but there’s still particulate matter. Lung cancer in the apocalypse might rival the bite for terror.

“What do you see?” Sam asks, voice strangely hushed.

Dirt, dust and ash, Chris thinks. Not much flame for all the smoke. Precious little left to burn beyond the farmhouse. A downed shack, more black tatted scorches where tents would have stood. Another shack in the distance, half standing.

There's no breeze but the smoke shifts ahead of him, enough to reveal a figure squatted down, examining the collapsed side of the structure.

“Nine, Seven, whichever one of you is at the shack, you’re off course.”

“Nothing like that here.” Nine would take offence to a statement of fact. Chris has barely run with him an hour and he’s still not surprised.

“Seven?”

“Have you got your hammer, McShell?” He doesn’t need to offer more explanation than that, but of course he does. “Whoever you can see, it isn’t me.”

The hammer is blunted at both ends. A claw one would only get stuck in skulls and slow him down. It’s timing and analysis that are his strengths, not the tool, but the weight in his hand is still a comfort.

The figure in the smoke hasn’t moved. A few steps closer and he can start to see a shape: Head tucked to chest, arms up, palms held flat above its head, knees trembling with the crouch. Chris crunches gravel underfoot and Runner Nineteen turns his face up, squinting towards him.

“Help me.”

His headset is hanging loose around his neck and the way his eyes are slitted Chris can’t believe he’s really seeing him. Shouting blind. Not an intelligent tactical decision.

“There’s a girl under here,” he coughs and the wall of the shack he’s holding above his head trembles with the motion. “She’s too hurt to crawl and I can’t get her out on my own.”

Another step closer and he thinks he can see a shape in the gloom of the shack. Slight, probably small for her age, long hair. Same colour as her mother’s, that hair.

“Help,” Nineteen says again, and Chris barks words he doesn’t register into the headset and hits the ground at his side so hard the stones bite into his knees.

…

Chris and Simon bring the girl in. Or, to be accurate, Simon comes in with the girl in his arms and Chris at his heels. From the look on his face Ten might have wandered into the hospital by accident, could be anywhere else in his head.

“She got a bad knock to the head and too much smoke in her,” Three tells Maxine on their way past Eugene. “But her pulse is good and Jack said she stayed conscious most of the time he was with her.”

“Put her in bed six,” Maxine glances back, to where Chris is still lingering inside the front flap, staring. “How many more are coming?”

Simon goes quiet a beat and Eugene pinches the bridge of his nose in his thumb and forefinger, reaches out to turn off the elements on their jury-rigged sterilization unit without looking. “Just us runners. Evan says we’re supposed to let you know most of us are going to be coughing our lungs out the rest of the night.”

“What happened?” he doesn’t register the impulse to speak until the words are out of his mouth.

“Can’t say rightly,” Three sets the girl down gentle as he can. She’s floppy, but Eugene’s pretty sure that’s better than rigour. “Skoobs went up like a light. New hole in the wall too. Place’ll be crawling with zoms already.”

Maxine swears under her breath. Eugene feels glad of the hand still partially covering his eyes, pinches at the bridge of his nose until the pain of it drowns the headache and then pinches harder still.

He has to ask.

God, he doesn’t want to ask.

“What happened to Jack?”

“Runner Eight and Runner Seven are walking him back,” Three’s smile is too knowing but Eugene’s too busy trying to keep standing as relief takes out his knee to care. “He was holding a wall off the girl when we found her, got almost as much smoke as she did. We weren’t about to make him run back.”

“Right,” he clears his throat, looks away. “Chris, are you ok?”

“What?” Runner Ten blinks too many times to have been paying attention beforehand, head swivelling on his shoulders as his eyes track from Eugene to Simon to Maxine to the girl on the bed. “I suppose I should—“ He turns on his heel, out the front entrance before he can finish the sentence.

“He’ll be back soon enough,” Three says, and it takes Eugene a minute to match the ‘he’ to the smirk on Simon’s face. “Meantime, I’m going to make sure McShell doesn’t walk himself clear into a wall.”

“Yeah,” Eugene says, as though his agreement is in any way necessary or helpful. There’s a tightness building in his chest, this absurd feeling like his eyes are going to start watering any second. He needs to sit down. Somewhere dark and quiet and nowhere near any of these people.

“Eugene, I’m going to need the blood pressure cuff,” Maxine says, a little too gentle.

Whatever look she’s giving him right now, he refuses to acknowledge it.

…

He’ll be back soon enough, Simon had said, but if Jack’s made it home to Abel there’s no sign of it. Maxine’s got Alice — new Alice, Skoobs Alice, not Runner Five Alice — stable and Eugene is back to fiddling with unopened packs of alcohol swabs, and the front flap of the tent hasn’t so much as twitched in the breeze.

“You should go find him,” Maxine says.

Eugene sets his crutch down on canvas by mistake and narrowly avoids arriving in the quad face first.

…

The armoury is cool and dim as ever, high-set windows providing just enough light to wash the room in greys. With the way his crutch echoes on the cement, Eugene doesn’t bother announcing his arrival.

At least Jack’s not in the quarantine booth this time — the only time he’ll take sitting on a crate of live rounds as a step forward. The posture’s familiar, though. Knees up, head down, W.G. hugged against his midsection. A few steps closer and Eugene can hear the rasp as he breathes, like the the two-pack a day grandfather he barely remembers from childhood or the wheeze of an air pump.

Eugene blinks hard and tries to speak around whatever’s blocking his throat. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Jack’s face is smeared with ash, hair still stuck to his forehead with sweat. In the light, only his eyes show colour: blue, bloodshot, red-rimmed and wet. No tear tracks on his face, but the black streak under one eye glistens with smeared moisture.

“Hi,” Eugene echoes back.

Almost a hint of a smile. “You said that already.”

“Yeah, I—” What? What what what? “I brought you something.” He jams a hand in his back pocket, fumbles the device out. Something wrong with him, must be. No reason for his hands to be shaking.

Jack holds his hands out, lets Eugene set the iPod in his cupped palms, cord pooling and sliding between his fingers. “I thought it would help,” Eugene says, and it feels like he’s pleading.

Jack’s fingers brush the heel of his hand, and his eyes are round and bleary and inscrutable. “Thanks.”

God, he’s so glad to see him. Just — just really glad.

“Gene?”

He curls Jack’s fingers around the iPod, squeezes his scraped knuckles and drags his fingertips over the furrows between bone. When he leans in, Jack’s still watching him wide eyed, mouth partially open, even as Eugene slams his own eyes shut, kisses him closed lipped and harder than he means to. He taste like campfires and sweat and Eugene can feel the rush of breath against his lips as much as hear it.

“Timing, Gene,” Jack says with a sigh as wrecked as the rest of his voice.

“I know.” He shoves himself backwards with the crutch, puts some friendly distance between them again. At least his hands aren’t shaking now. At least there’s that. “Sorry.”

“No, wait,” Jack passes the iPod from hand to hand, watches him with a screwed up frown. Puzzled more than angry. His lips are chapped, funny how Eugene hadn’t noticed. “I thought you weren’t — you blew me off pretty hard, you know.”

“I know.” He flexes his fingers on the crutches, doesn’t let himself touch his lips, chase the press of Jack’s.

“So,” Jack trails off, waiting.

“Yeah.” He more than deserves the face that gets him. “I’m an idiot, ok?”

“Knew that already.” That hint of a smile again, and Eugene watches it fade as the silence stretches between them. “Is it a pity thing?”

“No,” he says it too fast, he’s sure. “No, nothing like that.”

“So it’s a—“

“Yeah.”

“Eugene,” Jack flails out, frustrated, and sends the iPod’s earbuds clacking against the metal casing, “come on. Say some actual words.”

“Could we try this?” His turn to flail back and forth between the two of them, like that might encompass some of it. Jack’s stupid smiles, or his jokes, or feeling like a normal human being for once since the dead rose and the car died and everything went to hell.

“This?”

“Us. Romantically.” Eugene grinds his teeth, refuses to let himself look away from Jack’s stare no matter how bad he wants to break, run, lock himself in the damn quarantine room. 

“Seriously, timing,” Jack says, rueful, and pats the space on the box next to him. “Sit down?”

Getting himself onto the crate seems to take forever the way his arms fight him every time he insists they ought to take some of his weight. “So, is that — are we…?”

“Do you want to listen to a song?” Jack asks, and holds up a headphone.

It feels like the bottom’s dropped out of his stomach. Like he’s been punched. Like what he deserves. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

He’ll be a good person here. He’ll stay for at least two songs before he slinks off.

“Idiot,” Jack says with another little sigh and slides closer, until they’re shoulder to shoulder, no tension on the iPod cord between them, even when Jack cups his cheek, turns Eugene’s head to face him. The kiss is better this time. Slow enough to process, to savour, to start to learn movement of Jack’s mouth on his and the smoke and salt smell of his skin. Eugene hears something go sliding down the side of the crate, hears the too-familiar clatter of crutch hitting the floor. Doesn't care. Reels Jack in for another kiss when he starts to pull back instead.

It must take them longer to break apart then it took him to get up here, but it doesn't feel like it.

“Right,” Jack’s hand finds his on the crate top, fingers linking. There are lines in the soot smears now, creases where his eyes crinkle up with his smile. “What did you want to listen to?”

Eugene grins back. “Anything.”

Maxine’s going to be over the moon when she finds out.


End file.
